


Clandestine Operational Techniques

by inbox



Series: Church and State [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent (Fake Names Fake Background), Dubious Ethics, Frottage, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Shotgunning, Trans Male Character, Trans Top, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Goal: make contact with your mark. Apply tradecraft as appropriate to complete your dossier and acquire confirmation of Brotherhood activity. Deacon, please take a moment to reread your handbook and refresh your knowledge of appropriate ethical information gathering techniques.Deacon/M!SS.





	1. Goodneighbor, Bunker Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courtesy warning: none for this chapter.   
> Language choices: none for this chapter.

 

 

>  Goodneighbor - Three Months

Over the years Deacon noticed some recurring threads in the Railroad intel packets he collected and collated monthly. Rumours about someone breaking into a previously unbroached but silent vault, rumours about it being related to the new synth models that started hitting the ground nearly 60 years ago. The offhand mentions appear in their scarce surviving ciphered archives too, dating back years and years.

A grand mystery, he told Des. Might be worth looking into, might be happenstance, might be trader gossip that morphed into local legend with the passage of time.

Deacon doesn’t believe in coincidence, but he _is_ a fan of feeding data to P.A.M and seeing what she has to say about it. The numbers played out. Rumour regularly falling within a particular date range, allowing a variance for time and memory, stops being hearsay and starts being credible once P.A.M decrees that his data set is large enough to be statistically relevant.

So over the years he does a little sniffing around, chases a few threads, even got hollered at by Des for periodically sending an agent out to the middle of nowhere to scope the vault for activity. It isn’t a priority but it gives him something to think about when he takes a little downtime. Eventually he runs out of leads and things to add to the file, and it gradually sinks to the bottom of his terminal screen to linger forgotten.

And then the vault opens and out walks the missing piece of his puzzle, squinting into the sunshine and curling his lip at a brand new century.

In an ideal world Deacon would’ve been right there with a notepad in one hand ready to grill the wasteland newborn for every single thing he remembered about the vault, but shit is rarely that easy or simple.

The vault sealed itself back up tight after the popsicle walked out. There's no way Deacon can justify using Railroad resources to break back in on nothing more than a hunch, so that just leaves some good ol’ fashioned gumshoe investigation.

He’ll track him down.

It'll be easy! Piece of cake. A cakewalk. A bake sale. A stroll in the park, a Sunday drive, a weekend jolly. It's only miles of Commonwealth to search through, on little to no description of what the icecube looks like, with no confirmation he even survived his first week, let alone his first night.

That’s fine though. Honestly. He loves a challenge. Might complain to the silent heavens about it, but seriously. _So into it._

So. The details. Deacon knows nothing concrete about the guy’s history apart from being an icecube for approximately 210 years. Like, as you do. Nothing new or original there. There are plenty of double centurions getting around these days, although most of them aren't quite so, uh, well preserved.

The guy's new life is more documented though. Deacon thinks of his recon as a patchwork stitched together from reliable information and trader gossip, gradually getting bigger and more solid the more he asks around. He runs the details. Church, male, estimated age between 45 and 50. Home base in Sanctuary. Minor positive contact with the Minutemen. Minor negative contact with the Gunners. Solid level of survival experience. Has a nice dog.

Still not enough to get a read on him though. Not enough to finally put a pin in a years-long mystery he's been interested in solving. Now, with the perfect synergy of time and location and straight up bribery it’s time to say hi and find out what, if anything, the guy might know what treasures someone might get from spelunking his former arctic home.

Deacon paid a few people, greased a few palms, and got an actual confirmed time and date where he can meet the guy - Church, gotta remember his name before he act like he doesn't know his name - for the first time. Informant said that he walked to Goodneighbor from Diamond City with a caravan two days ago, took a room in town for four nights to wait for a job or something. Didn’t have much to say, kept his ears peeled and his point sharp. Didn’t need a lick of babysitting, welcome to walk with their outfit any time. Good references. Looks nice on a resume. Very hireable.

The mark goes into the Third Rail ‘round nine that night. Deacon gives him a good fifteen minutes to relax before he follows him down the slippery tiled steps into the sweaty heat of the bar.

He’s going to watch and wait, and when the time is just right he’ll pull on his act like a well-worn sweater and make some magic happen.

Deacon plans on taking the easy approach. Play a little drunk, be a little friendly, radiate good hearted warmth and ply him with drinks to get the guy to open up to his new pal. It’s not the most sophisticated intel gathering routine he’s ever pulled, but simplicity has it’s own merits. It’s hard to say no to a friendly face who wants you to drink their money, and Deacon has a _very_ friendly face.

But… but. But, but, but.

These days Deacon isn’t inclined to ignore his gut reactions. There’s something in the air, something he can't identify, that gives him a crawling case of the heebie jeebies from the moment he steps onto the platform. Is it the room, the crowd? The anticipation of finally getting face to face with the last piece of his passion project that’s been gathering dust for far too long? Maybe it’s the man of the hour himself.

It makes sense to be cautious, right? Better to sit down and flirt idly with the huge guy overflowing the sofa cushions next to him, nod along to Magnolia’s set, and add some good ol’ fashioned observations to add to his mental file while his mouth runs on autopilot.

So. First impressions.

Average height. Average weight. Average. That’s good. Deacon likes average. Healthy, not emaciated. Still got some pre-thaw fat around his middle, probably has a full rack of nice shiny teeth. Clean shirt, mended jeans, boots look like they’ve been through a trough of brahmin shit. Confident enough to sit with his back to the room, smart enough to stay in the corner.

Nice piece on his hip but he sits like the holster is going to yank his belt down. Funny, but not relevant. Well, maybe not relevant. It's always nice to have a comedy routine ready at someone else's expense, y’know?

Right. Back to the serious work. Enough points match up. Definitely the icecube that made a break for freedom three months ago.

Deacon watches and waits. The big guy next to him tentatively puts his hand on Deacon’s arm. He says something flirty in reply, but his attention isn't in it.

The fella gets two drinks: a bottle of syrupy sweet fruit soda and a small shot of something dark and lines them up on the bar. He babies the soda and rolls each sip around his mouth like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. The shot stays untouched and ignored.

Magnolia calls for requests. Church orders another soda. The big guy gets Deacon a drink and wraps his arm around his shoulder.

When Church finally leaves it’s close to half ten. By his count that was three bottles of mutfruit fizz, four cigarettes, one request for Magnolia to sing ‘Deed I Do’, one conversation with a skinny beanpole with an unfortunate goatee, and one untouched shot. Deacon watches him leave, taking the stairs two at a time until he disappears from sight.

Hmm. _Hmmmmmm._

His new friend on the couch squeezes his shoulder. “He’s staying at the Rexford,” he says. “Same floor as me.” If he's offended that Deacon has been less than subtly keeping his eyes on another man for their entire conversation, he doing a great job of hiding it.

Deacon gives him a big sunny smile. “Are you saying I should accompany you to your hotel room?”

“Don’t wanna be pushy but I wouldn’t say no.” He gets to his feet and gentlemanly offers Deacon a hand. The guy is a _bear_ , a full head taller than Deacon and twice as wide. He grins at Deacon. “I’ve always wanted to be a co-conspirator. I’m Brian, by the way.”

“Arthur,” lies Deacon smoothly. He slips his arm around Brian’s waist as far as he can reach. “C’mon gumshoe, let’s go spy on someone.”

 

* * *

 

> Bunker Hill - Eight Months

Deacon cleans his nails with his pocketknife and makes a great show of not listening to his target bluntly tell the innkeeper and his son that the Railroad is a waste of time.

Pick, pick. So much dirt under his nails these days. One of these days he's going to make a persona that involves clean clothes and a decent bath and a lot of laying down. Surely someone, somewhere, must be in the need of a gentleman of leisure to eavesdrop on all of their personal conversations, right?

He smiles politely when Church glances his way, and tilts his head in a nod of solidarity. _You and me, pal_ , he silently says with just the elegant tilt to his chin. It's his best angle. _A couple of working stiffs taking a load off._ _No synth sympathisers here._

No, wait… no _synth_ pathisers. Incredible. Gonna take that one to the bank. Tinker Tom is going to love it.

The asshole blanks him and goes back to his mutfruit soda.

Wow. Rude.

Deacon ran the latest sheets on Church two days prior. Everything he knows about him is up to date, shaken around, shuffled and examined and calculated to say _UNACCEPTABLE RISK_ in big bold letters. Now he can add rude to the list. Unbelievable.

Five months earlier Church had been little more than a footnote on a mystery that Deacon wanted solved for his own peace of mind. Now the guy is starting to make waves, and not fun waves. Not, like, beach waves with colourful towels and palm trees and cuties playing volleyball. Shitty waves. Waves of actual shit washing up on the Railroad’s previously manageable and reasonably turd-free beach.

Ok, his literary wordcraft might need a little work, but the point stands: Church walked into the Commonwealth, into Deacon’s stomping grounds, and took a piss all over it. A metaphorical piss. Probably a literal one too, but confirming that is well outside of Deacon’s job description.

He folds his pocket knife away and stashes it in his jacket lining. If he keeps mining away at the grime under his nails he’s going to wear himself down to the bone, and if the asshole next to him keeps making comments unknowingly impugning Deacon’s employer he’s probably going to get distracted and cut himself.

Time for some quick recon. It’s been a few months since he’s been this close to Church, and it’s an opportunity to update his mental guide to the fucker du jour. Fat gone, muscle improved. No new distinguishing marks, same unfortunate haircut. Got all his fingers, probably got all his teeth.

Well, ok. Uninteresting. The muscle filling out his shoulders and arms is nice to look at but he can’t really put that on an official report back to HQ.

His threads are infinitely more interesting though. The orange uniform is still new enough to creak, the waxed cotton starting to buff all shiny on his right shoulder. A pack? No, a sling. Some kind of long gun?

Church absentmindedly rubs at the stiff collar every few minutes, tugging the shiny buckle away from his neck. Not used to wearing it? Hasn't broken it in yet. If he was smart he’d tarnish the buckle straight away so it doesn’t glint in the dark.

Hot tip, Deacon thinks. Make yourself harder for me to watch you.

He’s seen these uniforms before. Seen them on the new guys in town that arrived a month or two ago, The Brotherhood of Steel. Big players from down south looking for new territories to wave their dick over, some brahminshit line about liberating the Commonwealth.

So, it’s a new uniform for Church in both senses. New threads, new party. He can work with this. He can do a _lot_ with this.

“Keep on looking,” says Church sourly, cutting through Deacon’s reverie. He's not even committed enough to give Deacon a proper serve of the ol’ hairy eyeball, just half turns his way and curls his lip a little.

Close up he's handsome enough in a flinty way, let down by hard eyes and a thin mouth. The quick toe to tip look he gives him leaves Deacon feeling like he's just been sized up, measured, and discarded as unimportant all in a single second.

Which, to be totally fair, is exactly what he’d been doing to him in return. Tit for tat.

“Just admiring the slick threads,” he says, opting for honesty. Church gives him a disbelieving look and turns back to the bar, elbows on the countertop.

“Railroad,” prompts the bartender.

The conversation starts again. Deacon recognises the Brotherhood party line when he hears it. Synths, unacceptable. Railroad, unacceptable. Man is man, machine is machine, blah blah so on and so forth. It's nothing new, but there's enough conviction there to tell Deacon that he's not lying. Same ol’ black and white view on things that he's heard a hundred times before. No shades of grey, no flexibility in this guy’s world. Christ, life must be so boring when your train tracks are that narrow.

Deacon’s heard it all before, sure, but this time the guy voicing the shitty opinion is also wearing the uniform of a bunch of assholes, _also_ with shitty opinions, who actually might have the firepower to deal with The Institute and not in the way that the Railroad would prefer. Too… y'know, too mass murdery.

Kinda gives the whole _blah blah remove the threat remove the synth menace_ speech a bit more weight hearing it from someone with that kind of backing instead of from the mouth of some sawtoothed dirt farmer convinced that someone replaced his brahmin with a replicant in the dead of night.

Mass destruction outweighs a bent musket any day. Nice uniform, unflattering haircut, bad opinions. Can’t win ‘em all.

He bites his tongue and buys himself another pot of small beer, brewed thick and bready and served in a mug with WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA printed on the side. Small beer is better than risking the water ‘round here and he'd get full long before he'd get drunk. _A loaf in every cup!_ Church orders another soda, pops the cap on the edge of the bar with a sharp smack from the heel of his hand.

Showboat. Deacon smiles at him with too many teeth.

The conversation turns to safer subjects, weather and crops and a nuisance bunch of kids who keep laying cherry bombs on the road outside Covenant to scare the brahmin. The barman opines that there's nothing a little hard work couldn't fix. _Spoilt kids. Give ‘em some rows to hoe, that'll make ‘em too tired to act up._

Deacon wedges his way into the discussion here and there, giving a gentle salting of information to sell the illusion that he’s a road weary caravan guard who wears out his boot leather all across this great irradiated shitscape. There's always a new story to tell. A new shootout, a new encampment. Some of the stories are real, some of them are borrowed, a lot of them are brahminshit. He’s never let the truth get in the way of a good story in his life and he’s not inclined to start now.

At least the road weary part of his act is real. He can sell that without trying after the month he’s had. Lots of miles, lots of conversations, lots of notes, lots of bribes. It wears on a man, even one with the ability to fake it ‘til he makes it.

Actually, hell with it. That's a good opening line. Time to reel this fish onto the boat.

“Never ends, does it?”

Church glances at him questioningly.

“Supermutants. Ghouls.” Deacon lifts his mug halfway to his mouth and gives out a heartfelt sigh. Sell it. You're a tired man, sweetheart. Act to the rafters. “Man can't take a pleasant walk these days without being assaulted by the wildlife.”

“Yep,” says Church. He rolls his bottle on its edge, the Nuka rocket fins on the repurposed glass clicking on the counter.

Deacon gives his own mug of beer a slight shake, stirring up the sediment until it goes cloudy. He takes a long sip and sighs again. “And those synths with real faces. Ugh. What a bummer, right.”

“That’s what they say.”

“I mean, every day I’ve got no idea if the person next to me is a fake,” says Deacon lightly, and chalks one up on his victory board when Church snorts derisively at the implication. “Orrrrrrrr,” he adds, before Church can begin to tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine, “They could just be flesh and blood. Good looking flesh and blood, of course, but normal anyway.”

“Thanks for the kind thought,” says the asshole, mollified by the most basic cheap ego puffery.

Deacon puts that one away in his mental file. Vain, maybe? No man should keep a high’n’tight that high _and_ tight without some kind of vanity driving him on. Definitely going to use that later.

He spins on his seat enough to brace his boot on the footrest of Church’s barstool, and touches a hand to his heart in mock concern. “As long as you’re not a synth here to suck out my humanity and leave me a husk of a man...”

Church actually laughs at that, much to his surprise. “Only if you’re lucky.”

This time he really does press a hand to his chest, gasping in mock indignation. “Mister, I _never_.”

“Sure.” The mark grins into his soda. “Bet you say that to all the fellas.”

“Only the ones in tight jumpsuits.”

Church lifts his chin a little and gives Deacon another loaded look. “That so?”

“I’m an old fashioned guy,” he says and finishes his beer, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve. “Can’t go wrong with a man in uniform.”

“You often flirt by telling people they’re synths?”

Warning sirens, alarm bells, abandon ship. This line of conversation isn’t paying off.

“Buddy, I never claimed my techniques were good.” Deacon holds up his hands, palms up. His expression radiates wide-eyed simple concern, skin deep at best. “Hey, look. Politics. It's the last thing you want to talk about at the dinner table, right?”

“That's what they say.”

“Pity we can't make small talk about baseball stats these days.”

The set of Church’s shoulders stiffens up, barely enough to be noticed by anyone who wasn't looking for it. Subconscious reactions, the spy’s best friend. “Sure.”

“I hear the Red Sox had a hell of a season. Admittedly that was quite a few years ago, but…”

“Yeah,” says Church. He turns on his bar stool a little, gives him another up and down as he cuffs his sleeves a little, unsnaps the fasteners and folds them up once, twice. His calf presses into Deacon’s knee, thick muscle against hard bone. Neither of them move until he's done. “That's not a name you hear much these days.”

Deacon fixes him with a dazzling smile. He doesn't look down at Church’s hands.  “I'm a well read man of local history.”

“History,” says Church. “Right.”

It’s a watery weak save but Church lets it slide, more interested in watching a buck moth bounce against the light behind the bar than letting Deacon hang himself with his own conversational rope.

Right. Ok. He can redeem this. Directness works. Be direct. Be flirty. Don’t, uh, call him a synth again.

“Tell you what, friend,” says Deacon, and spins a bottlecap to get his attention. It spins lopsided and rolls to the edge of the counter, and falls.

Church catches it on reflex, the cap landing silver side up in his open hand. There are hard calluses high on his palm and speckled dark spots up the inside of his forearm.

Foregrip callus, powder burns on his left arm, a sling mark on his right shoulder. Right handed, definitely uses long guns. Bingo, confirmed.

Deacon gifts him another sunny smile as he takes back his money, fingertips grazing his skin a fraction longer than necessary. “The moon is full, the stars are shining, the screams in the distance are quiet. I'm in the mood to celebrate. Let me buy a stranger a drink.” He waits a calculated second, just long enough for Church to open his mouth, and cuts him off before he can say no. “Beer? Dark spirits? A rich red to tantalise the tongue?”

“No,” says Church. The frown line worn between his brows wrinkles just a little deeper. Can’t stand being interrupted. Love it, add it to the list. “No, thank you.”

Well, shit. So much for getting him drunk. Maybe he doesn’t drink. Maybe he _can’t_ drink. Hmm. Explains the ignored shot in Goodneighbor. Maybe the guy likes to test his willpower in the most self flagellating way possible.

So much for the oldest trick in the book: liquor ‘em up and get ‘em talking and sort the truth from the booze later. Maybe he needs the second oldest trick in the book?

Nothing wrong with angling for some pillow talk. The down’n’dirty wet specifics don’t need to go into any reports he files back at headquarters. Well, unless the specifics are really, _really_ good, in which case history should be preserved for the betterment of mankind of all origins, born and made.

How to approach? Suave. Finessed? Nah, fuck it. Boots first, dick first.

“Hey,” he says lightly when the bartender turns to go move the dirt around at the other end of the bar. “You don't look like you've got anything better to do. Want to get out of here?”

Church shrugs. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, and finishes the last mouthful of his soda. “Why not.”

Ok. Ok, ok, _ok_. A bit more enthusiasm would’ve been nice, but he can work with why not. Great things have come from why not. He joined the Railroad on little more than a why not, and look at him now: consummate liar, renowned data gatherer, and not above jerking off a few dicks attached to jerkoff dicks to get the job done for the greater good.

 _Des, oh Des_ , he thinks, and gracefully slides off his barstool to wait while Church pays his bill. _How proud you’ll be when I ask Carrington for a just-in-case needle in the ass after this._

Deacon turns to go up the stairs to the rented room over the bar that Church has been in for two nights, but the fella is already heading down the back of the compound, ‘round the long way past the shitters. He's out of the Bunker Hill side gate and leaning against the wall by the time Deacon cautiously rounds the corner, already unbuckling the ridiculous collar of his uniform and reaching down over his heart to pull out a crumpled packet of cigarettes.

“Smoke?”

“You got it,” says Deacon, and ignores the offered packet in favour of leaning over and taking a cigarette between pursed lips, glancing up through his eyelashes.

“Cute,” says Church. He lights Deacon’s cigarette anyway, and doesn't blink when Deacon’s fingers smooth over the soft skin of his wrist in a pretence of holding the flame still.

Right wrist. Smooth, little grit. Fires right handed only, rarely uses small arms. Thanks guy, thinks Deacon. You're a wealth.

Church lights up himself, and lets out a low sigh of contentment with his first hazy breath. Good sound. Nice noise. Regular smoker then. Could outrun him if needed. Good to know, good to know.

“You married?”

Deacon breathes out a plume of smoke right into his face. “Do you want me to be?”

“Cute,” says Church again. He looks singularly unimpressed. If he’s this much of a bubbly funster then no wonder he signed up with the blimp full of tin cans with literal _and_ figurative wedges parting their orange painted asses.

“But nope,” Deacon says cheerfully. “A sweetheart in every settlement, that's my speed. The long lonesome road, the dust on my boots, a romantic fumble in the corn fields while reciting sonnets under the stars. You?”

“No,” says Church. There is the tiniest pause tucked behind the word, bunkered and buffered between the existence of an old well worn truth and remembering - _knowing_ \- how to articulate a newer, harder truth. “I'm not married.”

There was a husband. There _is_ a husband. Deacon knows because he finally got into the vault on the hill and looked at him up close and personal. The guy was a slab of muscle with a big bore hole shot through his neck, messy and slow and straight through the throat, spending eternity sixty feet below ground getting freezer burned around the edges. That had been a real fun night of intel gathering. Good for the soul. Definitely one for the autobiography.

A ripped throat is one thing, but truthfully he'd been more unsettled by the attempt to straighten the big guy up and hide the black blood and tug his collar as high as possible. A desperate thin little veneer of normality lacquered over a murder scene. The ring finger carefully cut above the first knuckle was maybe the least surprising part of the whole grisly scene.

Funny isn’t it, the little details the mind holds on to. There was a ring tan on what was left of the dead guy’s finger; a band of paler skin above a good clean cut through frozen meat. Frost on the holding room C operations terminal making the keyboard stick and lag. Grit crunching under his sneakers in the security office, the false ceiling long rotted and collapsed. The generators discharging and making his teeth fizz as he passed by. The big guy’s name was Gil.

Deacon had stolen a Vault-Tec branded mug on the way out. Not like anyone in there was going to use it.

Maybe that was a little grim. Oh well. Another day, another job. Gotta laugh sometimes, otherwise it's just dead guys all the way down, right?

“You've got a ring on,” says Deacon, the picture of helpfulness.

To his credit Church barely raises his hand before he catches himself. Deacon is almost impressed. Good liar. Not great, but pretty good.

“Was married,” says Church tersely. “He left.”

Deacon thinks about what to say, and eventually settles on _I’m sorry to hear that_. Hey, it's technically true. Just ‘cause the guy - Gil, he remembers, Gil with half a neck - had the bad taste to marry this asshole doesn't mean that he deserved to get iced.

There's a pop of gunfire in the far distance, nowhere near close enough to be concerned about.  

Church flicks his cigarette with his thumbnail, sending a bullet of ash down into the road below. It lands square on a rusted manhole, and Deacon truly, _truly_ regrets that his mark is such a humourless turd because _c’mon_. Opportunities for crass jokes about perfect accuracy for manholes don't happen every day, and especially not when he's out here on the mean streets plying his craft in ways that any theoretical Railroad secret business handbook would specifically prohibit with underlining and arrows and THIS MEANS YOU written in the margins.

This guy is probably a rusted manhole. The rustiest.

He ignores Deacon, more interested in burning back to the filter as quickly as possible, cupping his palm to shield the ember from curious eyes and exhaling thin spears of smoke that wreath down his chest.

Deacon is under no illusions that he's the prize catch of all prize catches, but c’mon. Normally people are a little more visibly excited about the prospect of getting sucked off for free.

Finally he deigns to speak. “You armed?”

Deacon grins at him, pearly whites shining in the half darkness. “You think I'm dumb enough to come out here with you without a piece? I might be the sweetest thing you've seen all day but I'm not an idiot.”

“Hmm.” The cherry of his cigarette glows red when he draws back, the shine reflecting in his glasses. “You got a handgun? Drop the mag at your feet.”

“Not a chance.”

 _Christ_ , mutters Church and flicks his cigarette out onto the road, embers pinwheeling in the dark. He braces a hand against the wall for balance, fiddling with his ankle until he draws out a boot knife. The leather holster he pulls it from is stiff and the knife still has buff marks where the cast burrs were ground away. Fresh supplies from Brotherhood stores, first owner. Deacon makes a note to confirm the rank structure of the tin cans and find out how far back this guy is in the circle jerk.

“Goodwill gesture. Give me one back.” He drops the knife into the soft dirt, blade down and handle up. Easily grabbable. Sure of himself but not cocky. Good to know, add it to the file.

“Fine, fine. You twisted my arm.” Deacon reaches deep inside his thin jacket and makes a show of pulling the mouse gun he keeps snug up against his armpit, a little quad shot panic peashooter barely bigger than his palm. It makes a loud noise and it stings like hell, but the only way he could kill someone with it is by throwing it at them.

Great little piece. Saved his skin more times than he cares to count, _and_ it's cute. Tom even engraved a mouse on the handle, ‘cept he has no idea what a mouse looks like and drew some kind of sewer rat. It's the thought that counts.

Deacon crouches down to lay it on the ground next to the knife, and stays down. He can snatch both weapons from here, punch him in the dick for good measure. Get some insurance and buy some time, fire wild or stab him in the thigh, one two three and easy as can be. That’s more than enough of a distraction to book it out into the shadows.

There’s an emergency stash three blocks away with a zip gun and a change of clothes rolled up in sailcloth. Everything he needs to melt, melt, melt away into the dark. _I might be the sweetest thing you've seen all day but I'm not an idiot._

“I’m all yours. Defenseless. At your mercy. I hope you’re going to watch my back. It’s a good looking back, you know. It gets rave reviews.” If he wasn’t squatting in the dark he’d bat his lashes for good measure. Really sell it and seal the deal.

Church opens his mouth but Deacon cuts him off with a hand on his thigh. “Cute, right? I knew you were going to say that.” Another interruption. Keep him on the back foot.

Deacon digs his fingertips in right where he’d stick him, deep into the meat six inches north of his knee. It wouldn't bleed out but it’d hurt like a mother and lay him out flat for a few days. That’s more respectful, right? There’s no justification for sending his mark to meet his maker just yet. Des would have his head.

“Sure,” says Church, and leans down enough to pinch Deacon’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “Real cute.” He turns him this way and that, and coaxes him back to his feet with a fingertip firm under his jaw. The pressure under his chin makes his mouth water. “Get to the point. You didn't invite me out here to compliment you.”

“I didn't invite you out here at all,” Deacon says. “The ambience of your rented mattress was my goal. This--” he gestures at the street, “--outdoorsiness is too lowbrow for my refined tastes in pick up spots.”

“But corn fields are fine.”

Ah. Ahah. Shift gears, don't drop the clutch. Best way to deal with a slip is to steamroll straight past it. “The corn fields have to include poetry. Haven't you been paying attention?” He walks right into the guy’s personal space, hands on his hips, and steps him back until his shoulders are butted against the rough wood walls.

The fucker caught Deacon’s gun with the heel of his boot, knocked it backwards. It's against the wall, his heel on the handle. Deacon raises an eyebrow and the guy stares back at him. Has he got him made? No, just cautious. Good situational awareness. Sensible.

“Don't mark the grip,” he says. “I’m sentimental about it.”

They're the same height. Average height, average build, 5’8” in old money. Just two perfectly average men, of perfectly average height and perfectly average build, going to have a perfectly average fumble in a perfectly average piss-stained dark alcove.

“So here's the idea,” says Deacon, wedging his leg in between Church’s thighs. “I'd like to get acquainted in the biblical sense. Or I'd be more than happy to encourage you to your knees, as the priest said to the stripper.”

The guy might be a piece of shit, but he's a magnetic piece of shit. The thought of that sour mouth blowing him has got him wet and hard.

“Don't know if bible jokes are going to make that happen,” says Church. His hands are at Deacon’s fly, working open the stretched buttonhole and the safety pin that keeps it closed.

“I thought it was thematically appropriate, Church,” says Deacon airily.

The mistake hits him right as the word rolls off his tongue. Church. He doesn't know his name. He's not supposed to know his name. No names exchanged. He wanted to keep the mark thinking it was all ships in the night and no awkward conversations tomorrow. Amateur hour rookie mistake, god _damn_.

Church leans back, stares at him hard. His hands are still at Deacon’s waist, heavy and weighty and dangerously close to parts of his anatomy that are extremely precious and beloved. “I don't remember making an introduction.”

“We were introduced,” he says, brain working a mile a minute. Think, think. How have they crossed paths. Today he's a caravan guard. Where has Church been? He read the documents only last night, now isn't the time to go blank. Think, _think_. “At County Crossing. I was walking out with Doc Weathers. You don’t remember me?”

The look Church gives him is like being needled. “No,” he says flatly. “I haven't been through there in months.”

“You've got a memorable face,” says Deacon. “And a memorable name. I mean, Church? Talk about literary. With a name like that you should be fiddling for the devil at the crossroads under a blood moon. Really, you know, nail the aesthetic.”

Church's hands are still on his hips, pinning him down.

Think, think. This is going to go bad, he can feel it in his bones. The party popper gun is out but there's that stubby pocket knife in his shirt pocket. Reach it, stab him under the collarbone. His gaudy orange playsuit is thin there, no pockets or zippers. Headbutt him in the nose, smash his glasses into his face. There's a hook on his collar. Yank him to the side, bring him off balance. There's a bad knee in play, but left or right? 50/50 chance he'll get it right and send him buckling.

He punches him in the face instead. It's a shitty shot that crunches his knuckles on those civilised society teeth and bounces off his cheekbone, but it makes Church's head snap on his neck and he lets him go, too dazed to resist.

Deacon melts into the night. Take two.


	2. Diamond City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courtesy warnings: non op character, non op bj, frot/grinding, no penetration, non op ejaculation.  
> Language choices: hole, dick.

> Diamond City - 1.5 Years

Deacon has read plenty of shitty comics over the years, he knows how it should be. The bad guys are big hulking brutes, or they're monstrous beasts, or they're cape wearing villains lurking in lairs full of skull-based thematically appropriate interior decorating.

God, he wishes that was true in real life. Let's face it, everyone's job would be so much easier if the bad guys advertised themselves openly. In his experience it’s the unremarkable average Joes you gotta keep your eye on. Outside its all flat front slacks and earth tone polo shirts, but peel back a couple of layers and it's bad meat all the way deep down to their bones.

His sources in the Minutemen tell him that over a year of good work with the Minutemen got pissed away in the space of a few weeks. So much for the now-former General’s bloody-minded drive to rebuild an imitation of a world no one remembered but him, board by board and nail by nail, and to hell with anyone who stood in his way. The temptation of fully committing to a regimented life with the Brotherhood Of Assholes was more alluring than doing actual measurable good.

No, wait. Scratch that. The Brotherhood think they do good. Church thinks he's doing good by joining the Brotherhood. Deacon knows what the guy wants: order. Stability. A return to the old way of doing things, when _man was man and machine was machine_. No ghouls. No supermutants. No fun and excitement of two hundo years of weird shit hitting him in the face every single day.

A white picket fence and a truck in the driveway. Husband, breathing. Son, alive.

It’s an impossible brahminshit pipe dream. The Brotherhood talks a big game about order from chaos, but… shit. The order they want can't exist, their metric of comparison is long outdated. It's an antiquated idea stuck centuries in the past, just like their latest star recruit.

As much of a setback as losing a resource like Church was for the Minutemen, it's not a total loss for the Railroad. Relations with the Minutemen are still good on the downest of down lows. It had been a good tactical decision from Des to take advantage of the discord in the Minutemen hierarchy and sow some seeds of discontent amongst the boots out on patrol, drip a little honey into the ears of the paper pushers at HQ that write the schedules and make the wheels turn.

_Stick it to him. Teach him a lesson. Work with us. Stand up for the little guy against the General that couldn't._

Garvey must be saltier than the ocean. Shit, Deacon is pissed on his behalf, and he doesn't even know the guy beyond his occasional reconnaissance of their fortress crumbling into the sea. He hates wastage. Hates losing good resources. It makes him so damn angry he could spit. He wouldn't have to do this if they'd just _had more time_.

If only they'd been able to pull the right threads and tie the right knots, then they could've nailed this dour fucker as an asset for their own war chest, left him propped up as the Minuteman’s Man with his brass polished and his rifle ready. So what if he thought that synths deserve no better a bullet? That kind of thinking can be shaken out of people, often in ways that don't even leave a bruise.

Changing someone's mind is easy if you've got the right tools. A couple of weeks and he and Carrington coulda reshaped this asset into a real swell fella with love in his heart. After all, opinions are like assholes: you can put anything into them if you've got enough patience.

As much as Deacon enjoys nursing a rock solid calcified grudge, he knows that some shit has to get put away whether he likes it or not. He can stew in his own time, but he’s on the Railroad’s clock now. No point on losing focus.

Deacon’s tailed this turd ‘round Diamond City for three days and he's jonesing to make a move. There's only so much convoluted code conversation he can make with Arturo, only so many noodles he can eat, only so many times he can watch Church scratch his balls while boring the rust from a water-damaged shotgun barrel out in the watery Spring sunshine.

Info said that the guy has the same routine every time he comes to town. He eats up in the stands, and drinks down in the old bullpen. He sacks out in his dingy warehouse, he does the rounds in the market, he keeps to himself after hours. Thrilling. For the first time in his career Deacon wishes that the intel is wrong just so he'd have an excuse to actually _do_ something.

He’s wasted away the hours crafting a plan - a set of plans, actually, each more outlandish and physically impossible than the next - on how to make an approach to his target. Each variable was carefully valued, each outcome carefully calculated to excess. What the mark likes (a short list). What he dislikes (longer list). Everything Deacon knows from the official dossier he's been adding to on and over the past year and some, and all the other juicy gossip he's been collecting about Church on his own.  

Wait, no. Gossip is the wrong word. Intimate details, that's better. More truthful. He almost wants to shake Church's hand and congratulate him on having some a-grade premium grade steak keeping the home fires burning out in the deep boonies. Lovely guy. Nice tattoos. He repaired the stitching on his go bag for only a few caps, and bent Deacon in half for free. A real sweetheart.

Total accident, of course. He'd only put two and two together when… shit, what's his name. Sturges! When Sturges reached over him to pick up a handful of photos that had been knocked into the mess of his workbench, tenderly wiping away any dust and putting them up in pride of place before getting back to pushing Deacon’s knees to his ears.

Deacon just thought he was taking a nooner with a helpful and handsome handyman, then he's flat on his back getting his dick sucked _really well_ against a tableau of hammers while looking up at a picture of his current project blurrily waving from the top of a barn frame. Fate. What can you do.

Not that he can use any that on an official information drop, or even use it as bait for his target. The former because there's probably an entire chapter in the handbook that says that it's a really bad idea, and the latter because there's no point in trying to use the fact that his boyfriend fucks like a pro as a gotcha when Church doesn't give a shit.

So taking the boyfriend for a ride turned out to be tactically useless, sure, but it's a nice memory to think about on the cold lonely nights. If Sturges ever feels like upgrading from a dour asshole who doesn't talk much about what he does for a crust to, uh, an upbeat fun loving guy with his own costume department who would tell him even less about what he does for a living, then hey. The door is open. Knock twice at midnight and Deacon’ll be there to sweep him off his feet.

See, this was the problem with Diamond City. There's not much free entertainment happening in the Great Green Jewel if you're light in the wallet and just surviving on the Railroad’s dime. There's only so many times a guy can visit the Science Center before he becomes That Guy, y’know?

That left him the options of walking the town until his legs hurt, twiddling his thumbs and quote unquote ‘people watching’, and wasting his witching hours uncomfortably awake on a stained mattress in a cheap room at the back of a sweaty bar. And shit, even then the only entertainment choices were to give his brain a good workout by scheming and plotting to a ridiculous degree, or just jerking off ‘til his hands cramp.

He didn’t think the foul mattress in his rented room could absorb any more body fluids without disintegrating. Not his, but, y’know. In general. He tried not to think about.

Deacon is a patient guy, but c'mon. Three days. Even sleuthy all-stars have their limits.

It’s almost been a disappointment when the perfect opportunity to make contact with Church arose organically and completely unplanned: a crowded bar and a spare seat. Simple. Elegant. Fate.

Deacon didn't even have to costume himself with anything more elaborate than the patchy three day growth he was absolutely 100% deliberately cultivating by design, with totally nothing to do with the razor in his travel bag mysteriously disappearing after Tom was seen near his loadout bag.

He spots Church the moment he walks into the Dugout Inn, lured by a poster advertising live music for one night only. The guy is drinking a soda in the corner of the Dugout, back to the wall and his sneakers resting on a stained concrete planter. He's scrolling through the Pipboy on his wrist, brows furrowed as he reads.

God, Deacon would do awful things to get his hands on that device. Kill a man. Do manual labour. _Anything_. There's a Pipboy back at HQ that gets signed out on infiltration assignments but it's got nothing on it more interesting than a coded offset map and someone's half written novel. Church's arm candy is probably stuffed with geodata, Brotherhood comms, travel data, personal information… a goldmine of nothing but the goodest of the good stuff. _God_.

He wants the stupid Pip-Boy so bad he can practically feel himself salivating like a big dumb dog. Unlatching the clasps and smoothly liberating it without the fucko current owner noticing is the ideal, of course. Of course. The subtle way. The correct way. The Railroad way.

Truthfully he wouldn’t be above axing Church’s damn arm off at the elbow and just taking the whole thing to be dismantled later in peace, though Des would probably have a few sharp words to say about that tactic. ‘Reflects poorly on our goals’ and ‘frightened civilians’ and ‘screaming continuously as you ran past Diamond City security while clutching a severed arm to your chest is not the level of discretion I expect’ and, geeze, okay. Okay okay okay. Next time. Make idle chit-chat now, fantasise about taking the messy way out of datamining Church’s jewellry later.

Don't get distracted. Don't lose focus. Got to make some howdies before thinking about committing theft. He's gonna stick to the bar, drink his watered down vodka - more water than vodka, _I'm a cheap date_ \- and wait for the guy to come up for a refill. Scope the scene. Be patient.

That ambition lasts about half an hour. Partially because the Dugout is starting to fill up ass to elbow with people interested in the fiddle band tuning up in the corner and the empty seat by Church is looking more and more like prime real estate, and partially because Deacon is bored out of his goddamn skull.

Fine. Go. Let's party.

Deacon buys a fresh bottle of mutfruit soda and couriers it to the table himself, setting it on the warped wood with enough of a flourish that Church starts, his knee knocking the underside of the table with a solid thump.

“What th--”

“You're about five minutes away from being kicked out for not paying rent,” he says breezily, nodding over his shoulder at the brothers behind the bar. Neither of them are paying the slightest lick of attention to anyone except the people three deep at the counter thrusting caps at them.

Church looks at the drink with naked suspicion. “Thanks,” he says dubiously, and pats at his pocket. “I've got some money--.”

“On the house,” he says quickly, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. “I'm a good samaritan.”

The guy isn’t rude enough to tell him to fuck off, but he loads his silence with just enough weight to make it uncomfortable. Or uncomfortable for anyone other than Deacon, who smiles at him with radiant friendliness that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says with barely hidden reluctance, turning back to his Pipboy. The screen reflects back in his glasses, scrolling lines of unreadable amber gold.

Deacon settles in with his elbows on the table, chin propped on his hands. He’s gonna mine this asshole for information tonight if it kills him. One more day of sitting around this baseball themed shithole with a thumb up his ass is completely unacceptable, both to himself and Des.

“Nice Pipboy,” he says. “In good condition too.”

“Mhmm.”

“How much?”

“Nope,” says Church, not even gracing him with a glance upwards. “Not for sale.”

“200 caps.”

The mark actually smiles at that, faintly and fleetingly. It's an insulting low offer.

“Fine,” Deacon amends. “250 caps and another drink.”

“Keep going,” says Church. “You might hit the right number.”

“I'd say 300 and my number, but you'd have to get the phones working first.” He waits a beat for Church to process what he's said, and gives him a wink over the rim of his cup when the guy blinks.

He’s a businessman, he tells Church. Mister Henry Meiggs, reputable trader of marine parts buying and selling pieces to keep the fishing fleet hale and hearty down in Norfolk. Speculation and rumour of good pickings brought him north, and he found the folks of Diamond City fair and friendly. _And good looking_ , he adds, and goodnaturedly tsks when Church scoffs at the compliment.

The approach works despite being unplanned, untested, unfamiliar. It works even better than he'd expected. The ice melts as Deacon forces polite conversation about his not-career. Whatever he says sounds convincingly maritime enough that Church nods in agreement and relaxes, and buys a round when their drinks run dry. Deacon takes advantage of Church leaving to use the pisser to tip most of his vodka into the planter and ask the waitress to top him off with water. Five caps in her hand promises that any future drinks will arrive weak and watery, and she laughs and says _honey, normally they pay me to keep ‘em extra strong._

He draws his chair a little closer and presses his thigh against the threadbare denim of Church’s jeans, and crows on the inside when he doesn't jerk away from his touch. That aborted run in Bunker Hill months ago is paying off. His boyfriend’s pillow talk is paying off too. A happy fucked-out respite spent tracing the dancing girls on Sturges’s thick arms while he gushed about his absentee beau filled out his mental rolodex of personal details out nicely.

Now it's like he's finally got the Church code cracked: the right things to say, the right moves, the right mix of everything to get this asshole on his hook and reel him in to the boat.

Last time he was antagonistic, this time he's going to go down buttery smooth. Deacon’s gonna be a butterscotch. He's going to be the biggest, longest, coolest drink of water on the eastern seaboard. Three days of making him wait around, god. That's inhumane.

Deacon laughs at his not-funny jokes and offers him a cigarette and nods along to the music while listening ith faux interest to a story about fixing up a crabbing boat. He play acts his marine merchant persona with aplomb, puts a hand on his knee under the privacy of the sticky table and tells Church he should come see him for the best in personalised service for all his spare parts needs.

Of course Deacon knows the boat he's talking about. He knows the dock, knows what’s in the logbook, knows that he’s sailed the barely seaworthy bucket around what's left of the coast over the past four months, ranging for miles north and south. P.A.M says there are landmarks that correlate to numbers pencilled in his log notes. She says that it's 62% likely that it's amateur charting data, subsequently 78% likely that it will be passed on to the Brotherhood flying wing for accurate mapping. Des says he's fishing along the coast, making some extra money off the bedsheet sized flatfish that the encampments at Hull smoke for trade.

Deacon suspects both are equally true, but he keeps his third theory to himself. Can't drink if you didn't pack it on board. Can't test yourself with a shot of whisky right in front of you when you're six miles out and the weather is picking up. Sobriety by force, that's a hell of an excuse to go fishing.

Regardless of what the guy has been doing out in the bays by his lonesome, there are no shortage of kids around who are handy with a lockpick and have enough numbers and letters to report back on what they’ve read in logbooks and diaries and merchant manifests. All that information for only a few caps and their silence paid for with a handful of mutfruit leather.

There’s nothing Deacon doesn’t know about this guy, except for two important things: what is he _specifically_ going to do about the Institute, and what is the Brotherhood _specifically_ going to do about the Institute. Time to move.

“So,” he says, and rests an elbow on the table to prop his chin on his hand, and gives his mark a beautifully acted facsimile of a genuine smile. “Tell me about you.”

The story he tells Deacon is more or less the truth, just bent and warped out of shape. Came to Boston after a long absence, found out he'd lost some people close to him. Worked with a militia for a while, then joined up with an outfit called the Brotherhood in exchange for a fresh start and two squares a day. Got military experience, made sense to do what he knows to improve the Commonwealth.

It sounds noble on paper. Most unpleasant things do provided you just word them the right way. Deacon almost admires him for the skilled craft of being truthful and dishonest in the same sentence with the same words. Almost. _Almost_.

“The Brotherhood!” says Deacon with a prizewinning performance of great admiration. “Big fellas, big guns. Expeditionary squads pass through Norfolk every Spring.” Total brahminshit, of course. He has no idea how far the tin cans roam south on their eternal quest to parochially meddle in everyone else's affairs, but it's a safe wager that the asshole he's buttering up has no idea either. He gives Church a sorrowful look. “They're not interested in my line of work, sadly.”

“Can't all be perfect,” says Church, and doesn't complain when Deacon walks his fingertips a little higher up his thigh. It's the same place he was going to stick him with a pen knife months ago, and he allows himself some dark pleasure in kneading that sweet spot until Church exhales low and leans back to spread his knees further apart.

If he didn't despise the guy with a roiling passion he'd probably be into this a whole lot. A stranger at a bar, two ships in the night. A classic, right? Not to put a fine point on it but it's been a damn long while since he's had the opportunity to get off with someone's assistance, and even a repugnant shit like Church has a warm mouth.

“Mention my name when you boys get yourself a navy,” says Deacon. “I'll look after you right.”

“Sure,” says Church, and uses the distraction of the fiddle band starting a crowd favourite to casually drape an arm over the back of his chair. His thumb strokes against the sleeve of Deacon’s shirt. From this close he can smell harsh soap and faded cologne, and the scent of cigarettes embedded in his collar. “Henry Meiggs,” he says, leaning close to be heard over the music. His lips brush against Deacon’s ear. “Reputable marine trader. I'll tell ‘em you come highly recommended.”

Now, he thinks. Now, now, go.

Finally some solid ground. Known territories. This part of the approach was pre-planned and drilled and calculated to be the most effective way to get the information he wants. Step lightly, be breezy. Talk around the subject, slowly lead him to where he wants him to be. Listen to the the gaps between his words. Tonight Deacon is just a curious visitor from out of town who knows nothing more than wild rumours about the Commonwealth. Church might be thinking with his dick but he's still stone cold sober and not an idiot, so tread lightly, be careful, double back and double down if needed. He answers Deacon’s questions--

No, wait. That's not right. He answers the endlessly curious questions of Mr Meiggs of Norfolk in the great Commonwealth of Columbia, established 1969.

About crops.

About body snatchers.

About trade caravans he can trust.

About artificial people wearing human faces who were made, not born.

About the merits of dual motors versus twin screws in the local waters.

About the Brotherhood.

About where he can hire a guide to safely take him through the dockyards.

About the Institute.

About Church.

Church responds better than he'd hoped; even better than if he'd just been able to get him drunk and let the answers fall out of him. The answers to Deacon’s questions - the real questions, the ones lurking behind the _other_ questions - are slowly answered in piece by piece, theorised and suggested and sometimes confirmed by the things Church _doesn't_ say. He listens intently to the spaces between his words, mind racing a mile a minute as he laughs and talks and gets half hard from the way this irredeemable asshole is tracing lazy circles through the baby hairs high on his neck.

He steals a sip from a fresh bottle of Church’s syrupy sweet soda - for curiosity, he claims - and watches Church watch him, eyes trained to the lines of his throat as he swallows. Remember the big three pillars of getting into someone’s head, he thinks: money, ideology, ego. The first two are out because he’s broke and principled, but pandering to Church’s ego is paying fantastic dividends. If Deacon’s getting into his character a little too much, well, thems the breaks. He’s having fun and the op is running like clockwork, and he’s got the info he needs. Nothing wrong with letting things play out a little more, right?

_Famous last words_ , he thinks, and nods along to the music. Church’s dick is a thick weight under his palm, and he gives him a smug little smile as Church exhales and shifts a little to give him more space to cop a generous feel in the dark under the table.

Focus, Deacon, focus. Take the cigarette from his fingers and put Church's hand and put it where it needs to be, close enough to the frayed worn hole high on apex of his thighs that he's got no way of missing the damp heat pouring through the thin worn denim. Review the goods so far while Church feels him up. Tick them off, one by one.

One. The Brotherhood is aware the Institute exists. Confirmed.

Two. The Brotherhood is aware that the Institute is the source of near-perfect infiltration quality human synths. Confirmed.

Three. The Brotherhood plans to eradicate the Institute. Extremely likely.

Four. The Brotherhood has Church's full support. Confirmed.

Five. He believes in their mission, wholeheartedly. Confirmed.

Ok. Ok, ok, ok. Not great. Not the best thing he’s ever heard, but just the realisation that he’s got these hugely important details finally locked down after months of fumbling in the figurative dark has got Deacon feeling like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Now he knows, now the Railroad knows, now they can actually start putting some plans into motion to work out what the hell to do in the next few months. It’s done, and they’re ready.

He needs to get laid. Like, now.

No, wait. Hold the broken antique phone. He can get more done tonight. He can get into Church’s dingy warehouse. He's seen the outside of it enough of the past few days, but he wants to get inside and take a good look around. A maximum of work done with the minimum of effort, right?

Arturo’s been in there on social calls half a dozen times and he's told Deacon about what he might find. He vouches that the place is crammed full of things that Deacon might find useful; papers and mementos left everywhere, hand drawn schematics for things he didn't recognise pinned to the wall, and he swears he saw a Brotherhood code book slipped into an overstuffed bookshelf.

It's a good idea. It's a _great_ idea. He can whisper enough sweet nothings to get taken home to Church’s home ground, get laid, and sniff around while Church is sacked out and snoring. Shit, maybe he can get some shut eye himself and wake up with round two, and see how pliable he can make his mark through some good old fashioned legwork (and backwork, and frontwork, and the kind of work he’ll tell Desdemona about in graphic detail until she makes him go away).

It's great. It's dangerous as hell and possibly a colossal mistake, but it's still great. Even if Church ends up a lousy lay he can still get a feel for where the icecube has been, who he's been talking to, and who - or what - he's been shaking down in the esteemed name of the Brotherhood.

Deacon twists around in his seat to kiss him, abandoning his dick to catch his face in his hands and advertise his intentions like an unmissable neon sign. Church's stubble scratches and his dry lips taste smoky and sweet, and Deacon tilts his chin and licks into his mouth.

Bad idea. Great idea. This is… ok, sure, it's been a good long while and maybe his thinking is a little clouded right now, but the guy has his hand cradled ‘round the back of Deacon’s neck and a thick thumb firm on his dick through his jeans and it's working _really_ well for him.

“Come on,” he says, close enough that their lips brush against each other. His tone is a whole lot more wheedly than he's strictly comfortable with. “Lets--”

“Yeah,” says Church into his mouth, teeth grazing his lip. He leans back and looks at him intently, one big hand still cradling Deacon’s neck, chin down enough that he can see his eyes over the top of his glasses. He looks at him - really looks at him, mapping him from hair to cheeks to chin - like he's got every detail ready to be filed and noted and locked away.

Not gonna be able to do this again, Deacon thinks. Not without a better disguise. Not without tweaking his face. The thought makes him even more excited, and not for the first time he chides himself for being so damn predictable.

Rest in pieces, Deacon ‘Deacon’ Deacon. Too beautiful to live, finally laid low by his terminal bad taste in men.

Distraction, he needs a distraction. Being hungrily sized up is much less appealing when the guy doing it would probably put Deacon’s pretty face through the pavement if he had any idea why he was being scoped. He presses a finger to Church's mouth, and coos when he obligingly parts his lips and scrapes his teeth over the swell of Deacon’s fingerprint.

“I've got a room here,” he says. “Down the hall. It's not much, but…”

Church saves him from having to talk down the lacking merits of his shitty room, curling his lip at the thought of going down the hallway for a fuck. Clearly he's more than familiar with the musty single beds and airless rooms that the Dugout Inn specialises in. Thank god.

“I've got somewhere better in mind,” he says, lips brushing against Deacon’s fingertips. “If you want to get out of here.”

“I don't normally put out on the first date.” Deacon - Henry - tilts his chin, allowing Church to nose along his jaw. “Good thing--"

“Good thing this isn't a date then,” says Church, cutting in. “Jokes older than I am, Henry.” He presses the blunt line of his teeth to Deacon’s earlobe. “Least your looks make up for your sense of humour.”

Yeah, ok, fuck it. Let’s go.

Strictly business, he tells himself as they thread their way out of the crowd, his hand planted on the firm muscle of Church's ass. Wait, no, that's brahminshit. He might be a liar but there's no point in lying to himself. Strictly business once he gets that sour mouth to blow him, ‘cause that's a thought he's been carrying around since his Bunker Hill approach went tits up.

Ill-advised dicking down first, then nothing but business. Good plan, my man. Focused.

They step out to the warm night air and take big breaths of clean air, sweet and clear after the sweaty stale heat of the bar. Deacon kisses him briefly and takes him by the hand, leading him out of sight of the patrons smoking outside before anyone can hoot and holler at them and break the spell he’s worked so damn hard to create. He adds a little sugar to his out of towner act, hesitating at the edge of the Dugout courtyard before deciding to left towards the market.

Left, looping towards the door to Church's dingy warehouse. Left, towards the bounty of personal information that he's dying to get into.

Church grabs him by the wrist. “I've got somewhere better,” he promises.

Somewhere better involves sliding through a damp back alley and up a stack of rotting palettes, hopping the boundary fence to the stands and walking up too many steps. Finally Church stops and says _yep_ , and takes Deacon’s hand.

The whole of Diamond City shines below them, a sparkling light in an ocean of darkness. Deacon has been in and out of the place more often than he can count, but this is the first time he's ever made it up into the stands. He whistles appreciatively. “Nice office.”

By the time he turns around Church has already lit himself a cigarette, and offers up the packet with an invitational shake.

“I quit,” says Deacon, and takes a seat over his lap, face to face. He breathes in deep when Church exhales a hazy breath, and gives him a small smile. “Not real well, obviously.”

“Close enough to it,” Church says, and draws back hard on his cigarette. He crowds into Deacon’s space, close enough that his stubble digs into the chapped skin of Deacon's lips, and shotguns a lungful of stale smoke deep into his willing mouth. “Doesn’t count if it isn’t in your hand.”

“This means I still technically quit, right?” He leans back a little to get some air before he comes back for another lungful, and another, until there's nothing left but the sour smell of a singed filter.

He takes the stub from Church’s hand and tosses it blind behind him. Being a good responsible citizen and binning his litter is the least of his concerns right now, not when he's wet enough to soak his boxers.

Church pushes his shirt up to his collar, bunching up ‘round his neck while he cranes forward and scrapes his teeth over the hard point of his nipple. The fabric dragged against the grain of the coppery brown hair scattered over his chest and trailing down his belly, prickling and goose-pimpling his skin as it settles back strand by strand. Diamond Hard Deacon, he thinks, and clutches the guys head to his chest in an aggressive reminder to not stop doing _exactly_ what he's doing, except harder and with more teeth.

Church’s hair is sticky with a day of sweat and old pomade, clinging under Deacon’s nails. He’ll have to pick it out later. Another job, another case of grime wrecking his manicure. It's so hard to stay presentable these days. He digs in harder, and the rumble of Church’s answering chuckle burrs into his chest.

He still says  _harder, don't be nice_. Takes a lot to punch through the foggy feel even after all this time past the ol' lop n' chop, both there and not there, but it's worth the effort if someone's willing to give it some leather.

Thankfully Church has enough sense to do as he's told, not shy about making it hurt. He works Deacon hard and mean until the skin under his pecs is rubbed red from his stubble, spit-soaked and stinging as he bites and sucks and pinches hard enough make Deacon grunt and rock his hips.

Ugh. Beard rash. It'll burn like hell later and take days to fade on Deacon’s complexion.

But, hey, what's a mistake without a momento to examine the next morning? Gotta have something to examine in the mirror as he fingerguns his own reflection for a job well done.

“Christ,” says his mark, glasses pushed askew as he pants into the soft skin at the intersection of chest and shoulder, breathing in the sweat soaked through Deacon’s shirt.

Deacon’s got some heavy breathing happening himself. He arches his spine and leans back into the void, fingers digging into Church’s knees for support as he gulps in big mouthfuls of cool air to clear his head. The night breeze chills the wet smeared over his chest, gooseflesh pimpling his skin. Diamond City looks real pretty from this angle.

Shit, he thinks. Whoever taught this fucker to play a pair of pecs like an instrument and tweak a nipple like a finicky radio dial deserves a medal. Golly gee. Whizzbang. One for the monthly newsletter.

“C’mon,” says Church, wrapping big square hands around his waist and drawing him back upright. “I want to suck your dick.”

“That can be arranged, but--” He waves a hand to indicate that Church needs to put in some hard work and unbutton Deacon’s jeans himself.

“Cute.” Church squints down at Deacon’s hips, and rolls his eyes when he arches his hips up and shimmies a little. “You do this to every poor fucker you pick up?”

“Only the ones who don't rip my clothes off in a frenzy. Ticktock,” says Deacon imperiously, tapping at his bare wrist.

He doesn't dignify him with a response, more interested in unpinning the safety pin holding his jeans closed without drawing blood. Church unbuttons his fly with arctic slowness, watching Deacon’s face intently as the buttons slip through the stretched eyelets one by one.

Deacon stares back, ‘cept he's got a shit eating grin on his face that gets wider with every button. What a gift to be unwrapped, right?

“Up and off,” says Church, finally butterflying his jeans open with exaggerated care and squeezing his ass for emphasis. Deacon slides backwards and up, as gracefully as possible, and strips down on one foot then the other. He drops his boxers to the deck with a flourish. They're a mess anyway, sticky from how wet he's been for the past hour, wet from his shitty taste in morally unredeemable pick-ups. The canvas sneakers stay on.  _Can't make an outfit work without them, haha._

Any idiot can run without pants, but making a break for it in bare feet is asking for trouble. He's a Boy Scout, always prepared.

Deacon tells him to stay seated and stands over Church's legs, one foot up on the bleachers to give him some height. He parts himself with his fingers, brushing the head of his cock with a pleased sigh. He's soaked after all this flirting, the hair trailing down his thighs matted dark and wet.

“And I was going to turn in early tonight,” says Church, folding his glasses up and tucking them behind himself for safekeeping. “Read a book. Listen to the radio.”

“I'm more interesting,” says Deacon firmly. “And you said something about sucking my dick.”

“I did,” says Church. He licks his fingers and slides them alongside Deacon’s, wet and inviting. A good shiver rolls down his spine when Church shifts under him, adjusting his erection trapped under stiff denim. Well, ok. His mark, the white whale he's been chasing on and off for months, is undeniably turned on by the faux personality of Deacon’s creation standing in front of him, buck naked from the waist down and ready to party.

Is that flattering? Should he be flattered? _Yes_ , he thinks. Fuck yes. Good.  _Great_. Ethically dubious, sure, but he can wrestle with the finer points of situational morality later.

He's Henry Meiggs, he reminds himself. Henry Meiggs, reputable businessman. This sour asshole is going to blow Henry Meiggs in the abandoned stands of a baseball field, illuminated by stadium lights.

Things could always be worse. Things could always be weirder.

“Nothing goes in,” says Deacon, a thumb on Church's forehead enough to make him look up. He’s close enough that his chin pushes against Deacon’s mons, stubble prickling into the soft skin. “Suck me. Nothing else, yeah?”

He breathes out _yeah_ , and draws him forward with a hand on his ass, tilting his hips until Deacon’s cock juts out proud, round and firm and deep pink against sparse russet brown hair. It gets rave reviews. 10/10, five stars. Church spreads him wider, says  _shit, Henry, look at you_ and greedily takes him in his mouth.

It's too much at first, too hard and too direct, but Deacon digs his nails back into Church’s hair and holds him still. Moves his hips, shuffles his feet, pushes Church to where he wants. Then it’s not bad. Pretty okay, actually. A better use of his mouth than talking about unattainable delusions of remaking the world so that there would be white picket fences as far as the eye can see, that's for sure.

It's… it's not too bad? Still a bit rough, not used to correlation between size and sensitivity. Nothing that can’t be fixed through a quick deployment through Captain Deacon’s Cock Sucker Bootcamp, guaranteed to have even the laziest mouth fit and ready to serve. Like, he's been having a daydream about silencing Church this way for a long time because there's nothing like a good old fashioned nemesis fuck fantasy to really get the blood pumping at 3am, but having him be tolerably capable wasn't really a part of the package. He mostly just wanted to plow his mouth like something in a pulp blue book, you know?

He's a simple man with simple tastes. I saw, I conquered, I came.

Inexperience aside, Church is a quick study, figuring out what makes Deacon suck air between his teeth and what makes him jerk away for space. He traces the skin around the base of Deacon’s dick with the hard point of his tongue, licks him from root to tip in long passes that make Deacon cuss the air blue and grind his hips against his face. And holy Mary, mother of god, it's so _noisy_. The expectation he was working with was some kind of prim thin-lipped token suck, not this guy going to town like a starving man at a feast, wet and loud and grinning around the cock in his mouth.

“Here,” he says, and grabs at Church's wrist from where he's clawing into the meat of his ass, pushing big finger marks into his skin that'll take days to fade. “Right here.” He draws those hard nicotine-stained fingertips through his cleft and gets them wet and slippery, and presses them to the skin just above his cock. Every push makes a deep thrum of warmth pulse through his gut all bassy and rich, every tap pulls his foreskin tight and makes his dick jump. “Just… yeah, right there. Have I said thanks? Because thanks. If you ever come past--”

His traitorous mind goes blank.

Shit. _Shit_. Mr Henry Meiggs, reputable trader of marine goods from down south, from… from…

From…

For once in his life fate lobs Deacon an easy pitch. Church taps his fingertips down firm and hums around his cock, and any concern he has about not being able to finish his sentence is wiped clean from his mind as he jackknifes in half, clutching at Church's ears and wheezing like he's been punched in the gut.

“Fuck,” he says. “ _Fuck_.”

He feels his orgasm coming when Church swallows his dick down to the base, nose buried in the tangle of his pubic hair and hands on his ass pushing him tight to his mouth. He holds him hot on his tongue and sucking in rolling waves that make his muscles clench tight. “I'm…,” says Deacon, pulling him away. Church’s mouth and chin are shining wet. He licks his lips. “Shit, I'm gonna…”

He clutches at Church’s hair to keep him close and rubs ‘round his dick in short tight circles, hips jerking as he grunts and comes hard in wet gushes over Church’s face. It paints him from cheek to jaw, splashing his parted lips and pouring down his chest in a messy v of wet cotton.

“Christ, Henry,” says Church dumbly from between his thighs. He blinks and shakes his head, says _whoooeee_ as Deacon drags a finger through the thin water dripping from his chin and wipes it on his shirt in the shape of a neat x.

Gotcha pal. Signed, sealed, delivered.

“Tell your friends,” he quips weakly, and grabs at Church’s shoulder for balance. His fingers are tingling and near numb, his scalp feels a size too small. Like he said: 10/10, five stars. Come see the matinee.

Deacon gamely attempts a graceful mount of Church's legs, aiming for something that oozes confidence and power, but his knees have the structural stability of an aspic dinner. He sags like his strings have been cut and folds down, and holds up a finger for silence when Church opens his mouth to say something.

“Just… just give me a minute.”

He leans forward and sinks into Church’s neck, zoning out and riding that warm golden glow until the aftershocks of his hole clamping down on nothing fade away. He pants a little, breathing in the scents of old cigarettes and sweat and the salty-sour tang of his cum on Church's skin.

_Holy shit_ , he thinks. Like… holy shit. Talk about an epic for the ages. Months of work, months of planning, months of collecting info about this turd’s movements through every swampy mudpit backwater in the Commonwealth, and now he's finally got his information confirmed _and_ blew all over the guy’s face. He's gonna write a book about this. Fuck, he's going to send the autographed first copy to the Brotherhood. Here's one for the archives, assholes!

When he finally feels like he can hold a thought and not blow his cover wide open, he plants a palm in the middle of Church's chest and drags himself back upright. Church looks appropriately smug, even for a guy who just copped a facial so copious that he probably needed a life ring just to survive it.

He tugs at Church’s collar, pulling it up to dab at his chin. “What,” he says, as bland as plain oats. “Never had a good looking man come on your pretty face before?”

Church obligingly turns his head so that he can blot the worst of it from his cheek. “Maybe not that enthusiastically.” He runs his palms along Deacon’s quads, the muscles ropey and lean, and stops short of touching the thin skin on his inner thighs chafed red and hot from the scrape of Church's five o’clock shadow. “You're going to feel that tomorrow.”

“A gentleman would've shaved if he knew he was going to pick up a handsome bachelor,” says Deacon primly.

“Never been a gentleman in my life,” says Church, and wipes at his face with the back of his hand. He looks at the dampness on his fingers then touches them to his mouth, licking them clean. “A gentleman would've told me he blows like a fountain before drowning me.”

“Touché.”

Deacon takes his face in his hands and licks into his mouth again. His lips taste like Deacon’s cum, savoury and faintly earthy.

“You this nice to everyone you fuck?”

“Nope,” says Church easily. He strokes his palms up Deacon’s flanks, down his arms. “Why don't you ride me?”

“I don't--”

Church catches on before he can finish his sentence, and shakes his head. “Not like that. Here, just…” He indicates that Deacon should give him a little space, draw some strength back into his still-shaky knees. When there's enough gap to wedge his hands between Deacon’s thighs, he unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down his thighs enough to pull his dick free. He palms his balls, presses his fingertips to the meat of his dick and holding it down flat to his belly. “C’mon up, Henry.”

“I knew had a good feeling about you,” lies Deacon, says Henry. He gets a good grip on the denim and yanks it down Church’s thighs, enough to get his bare ass on concrete. His fingertips brush against some caps, a pocket knife, the teeth of a key deep in his pockets.

He spits on his palm and takes Church in hand, getting a feel for the weight and warmth of his cock. If Bunker Hill hadn't gone sour he would've blown him in the dark and missed out on all this floodlight-lit white light technicolour full page print of detail. Hadn't been expecting the curve to the left, definitely hadn't been expecting him to be cut. Nice looking though. Scrupulously maintained. He almost admires the priorities of a guy who can't be bothered to shave his chin baby smooth but still finds time to keep his below decks trimmed regulation neat and tidy.

Deacon tells him so. Archly adds that if only Church had the manners to take him back to somewhere with a mattress (and personal papers and code books and inventory logs and and and) that it's a dick he'd like to suck, except, alas… y'know, concrete. He's got delicate knees, y’know.

Of course his big fish ignores the bait. Or the white whale ignores the, uh, whale bait. Mr Henry Meiggs has already used up his allocation of shallow maritime metaphors tonight and he can't be bothered to think up more, not when Church waves away the offer in favour of leaning back on his elbows so Deacon’s got enough space to crawl up his thighs and assume his rightful position.

The Pip-Boy on Church’s wrist scrapes against the concrete. All that data, Deacon thinks. So close, so far.

He hopes to god no one is looking up to the bleachers tonight. Him, his last clean white tee, his naked pale ass, all competing to catch the blazing stadium lights from up high in the stands. Put ‘em all together and he's practically a second moon to the good folks down in Diamond City.

Today we salute Deacon: his celestial ass waxed gibbous while rubbing one out on someone with the ideological uplift of a soft pat of brahmin crap. He performed a noble sacrifice to his morals, performed in good service to the cause. Try tossing that one into PAM’s database. It's the variable to shame all variables.

“No funny business,” he says, thighs protesting as he holds himself still. “Don't get any ideas.”

Church makes a noise of assent and offers Deacon his hand for balance. “I'm at your mercy,” he says, and almost grins when Deacon snaps his fingers and pompously says _damn right_ before taking a seat.

He draws back a breath and closes his eyes when Deacon relaxes over his hips, a solid weight pinning him to the hard concrete, a solid weight pinning his dick to his gut. The brief flash of human vulnerability catches him almost - _almost_ \- off guard for a moment. It’s maybe the first time in his entire career of trailing this turd that he hasn’t been behind at least three layers of rock hard impenetrable ice, scripted and wary and frozen deep down to his bones. Maybe this is what his big ol’ boyfriend back in Sanctuary sees behind closed doors. The thought makes his gut lurch in excitement at the grimy mean thrill at having secretly snatched something personal from someone he hates.

Hey. Can’t be perfect all the time. Can’t help being petty and human. Maybe that would be the thing to make this guy change his mind about synths? _Fella, they might be made in a vat but they're just like you and me: sometimes nice, sometimes assholes, sometimes a sweetheart, sometimes petty as fuck and mean as a mad dog._ Synths! They're just like us!

Later, he thinks. Think about that later. The comedy routine can wait.

It takes a few tries, but soon they get a good rhythm together. Deacon rolls his hips and leans into it, eyes half closed as he twists a little to brace his hand on Church’s knee and arch his back. It's… shit, yeah, that's it. The sensitive skin ‘round his front hole glides along Church's shaft, spit and his juice giving just enough friction to get that good itch tickling his nerves. His half-hard dick catches Church's cut cockhead on every roll, bumping the sensitive folds of his foreskin and giving him a warm little twist of pleasure on each pass.

It's not glamorous, definitely not the most elegant way to grind one out, but it might be enough to come again. Might even be enough to leave the guy soaking wet, making the long walk home damp and sticky from his zip to his seat.

Golly gee, he thinks, and keeps that thought tucked away to examine in the privacy of his own bed on a rainy day. Three long dull days of twiddling his thumbs waiting for action really brings out a guy’s bad side, huh? Going to take a lot more than a bj and frot twofer (one with a really nice scenic view, albeit at his back) before he can feel charitable towards Church and the fact he _didn't_ take a cute stranger home for the true purpose of letting him loose to mine damaging data from all his private correspondence.

And everything else, he reminds himself primly, chastising himself in the privacy of his own head. Stoke that grudge. Stick it to the man, and by stick it he means grind one out for the greater good.

For once in his life he doesn't feel much like talking. Like, sure, he could patter the air blue, sell the fantasy of Henry Meiggs so hard that Church would jack it to the memory for _years_ , but… nah. It's better to let the noise of the city wash up behind him, listen to his own harsh breathing and the wet sound of them both getting off. Church watches him through half closed eyes, lips apart enough that Deacon can see the flash of those pearly white pre-war teeth.

He can feel Church draw up tense when he shifts his weight forward, one hand braced on his chest, one planted next to his ear. The bowl of his palms prickle from sweat, sticking to the dirty concrete, slipping against the hair on Church’s chest as he hitches his hips and chases that curling hot fizz building deep in his belly.

His back is gonna kill him tomorrow. Carrington is going to have kittens when he tells him why he needs - no, _deserves_ \- a big juicy bolus of cortisone slamdunked right into his back. Injured in the line of duty, right? Perils of the game, living on the edge. You know how it is, doc.

Big hands stroke up his back, cradle his neck, palm his ass. They kiss real awkward bumping chins and knocking teeth, and settle for just brushing lips against lips. Church’s cigarette-scented breath gusts noisy over his cheek, chill against the sweat that's beading on his temples and stinging his eyes.

“Henry,” he says, craning up and mouthing at his jaw, open mouthed and wet. _Henry, Henry, Henry. C'mon, c'mon…_

Church’s hands are like iron on his hips, pinning him down as he presses his teeth to the corded muscles of Deacon’s neck. Semen smears between them, thick and hot and sticking skin to skin as Deacon rides it out.

“Keep going,” Church says, his voice strangled up all ugly and tense as he digs a bracelet of fingertip marks into Deacon’s skin, knees braced wide as he pushes up hard, wringing himself empty. “Come on. I'm still good.”

Well shit guy, he thinks, if you're gonna put it that way then why not? No point in wasting the good itch he's got building. Deacon digs his fingers into Church’s shoulders hard enough to bruise, matched like for like, and chases his orgasm up and over the peak.

He grinds his hips down in short sharp jerks until he's close, so close, and hauls himself up and back to stroke his dick until he comes with a gush, wet and slick over Church’s belly, his cock, his jeans.

“Jesus,” says Church, up on his elbow quick enough that the joint pops loud enough to be heard over their breathing, the wet slide of skin against skin, the city alive down below. His eyes are wide and fixed on Deacon’s hands between his thighs, breathing hard as he jerks off with the splashed wet of thin watery cum until he comes again with a grunt, spilling thin and weak on the russet brown hair curling down Deacon’s thigh.

They stare at each other, still except for the rise and fall of their chests.

“Beats staying in and reading a book,” says Deacon eventually.

Church laughs at that at, a rusty garden gate bark of laughter that stops as soon as it begins. He rolls his elbow and shakes the semen from his fingers, and offers his clean hand for balance as Deacon dismounts his legs and slumps sideways on the bare concrete with only a token complaint about suffering in such palatial surroundings.

“Wild,” says Deacon weakly. The gritty concrete prickles against his bare ass. “Hooo doggy.”

“No _shit_ ,” says Church. He slumps back, his arm slung over his eyes as he exhales a shaky breath. “You good?”

“Just peachy,” says Deacon, and pats him on the thigh. “Did I break you?”

“Not by a long shot,” says Church. “Smoke?”

“Only a technical smoke,” Deacon allows. He turns his face up to the clear night sky and fights the urge to grin at his own success.  “Those don’t count.”

* * *

“Truth or dare,” says Deacon.

Church rolls his eyes. “No.”

“C’mon,” he says, hands on the old chain link fence as he gauges the drop on the far side. He lands heavy, maybe doesn't hide it as well as he should. “Have a little fun with me.”

Church takes longer to make the drop, favouring his left leg and getting down in stages. “Truth,” he says, and hits the dirt, lit cigarette safely wedged in the corner of his mouth.

“How long are you staying in town?”

“Another day,” he says, brushing the rust from his palms. “Maybe two. Truth. Why?”

“If I can get a guide through the docks I'll be gone by Monday,” lies Deacon, as smooth as butter. “Maybe I'd like some company until then. Someone to show me the sights.”

_Let me in_ , he thinks. Take me to your shitty warehouse. Be a gentleman and let me steal your stuff.

_Hmmmm,_ says Church and doesn't protest as Deacon takes his cigarette and gently bullies him against the back wall of someone's home, hands on his hips as he kisses him slow and leisurely. His cheeks and chin are tacky to the touch, filmy with Deacon’s cum. He hooks his fingertips into the belt loops of Church’s jeans, dips past the edge of his pockets. The denim is cool and damp to the touch.

It's the perfect parting gift, painted from face to wallet. _I saw, I conquered, I came._

“You're something else, Henry,” he says, and rescues his smoke before it smothers itself.

“Of course I am,” says Deacon flippantly, and smooths his collar. “Look at me. I'm a catch.”

Church gives him a little push. “I'll walk you back to the Inn.” He exhales a thin spear of smoke into the air and courteously ashes away from Deacon. In the dim light he looks about as cheerful as Deacon has ever seen in over a year of keeping tabs on him. “Truth,” he adds, and rests his hand on the small of Deacon’s back as they walk back through the crowded dank alley.

* * *

The next morning Nina Rodriguez runs into Church in the marketplace, bouncing off his thigh and stumbling on the uneven pavement. She grabs at his arm and he catches her by reflex, and nearly takes a tip himself when his knee buckles. He sets her upright and gives her a few caps, and tells her to beat it.

Deacon watches from behind his book, eating poached seabird eggs on toast and suffering the broadcast disapproval of a robot in exchange for a good view from high over the marketplace. Later he’ll give Nina a few more caps in exchange for a crisp shiny copy of the grimy brass key in her hand.

She's a good kid, Ms Rodriguez. Very reliable. Deft little hands. The original key will get back into Church's pocket within the hour. He won't even notice the rasp marks, Arturo's quick work leaving the teeth of his keys just a little shinier than they were this morning.

Henry Meiggs left town early. Got a good tip and left at dawn, nobly chasing down brass propellor screws and uncorroded pumps for the good fishing town of Norfolk. Y’know, ships passing in the night. Chance encounters, the vagaries of fate. The usual. The second oldest trick in the book takes another victory. Tried and true, baby.

Deacon hopes Sturges is going to hear all about him, maybe even tell him in turn when he next passes through Bumblefuck Nowhere and makes good on Sturges’ invitation to drop on by for coffee and cake and a good hearty tumble on clean-ish sheets to keep the evening chill at bay.

What can he say? Even the most invisible man is allowed a little self-congratulatory ego masturbation by proxy. C’mon handsome, tell me everything you've heard about me.

_Des is going to be so happy_ , Deacon thinks when he disappears into the dark bones of the old city with the Great Green Jewel bright at his back and a pair of duplicated warehouse keys safe in his pocket. _Job well done. Signed, sealed, delivered._

**Author's Note:**

> [i'm on tumblr](http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com). come say hi.


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